


With a Side of Helicopter Parenting

by King_Richard



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Some Swearing, lots of other characters once I decide how to incorporate them, no sex sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_Richard/pseuds/King_Richard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-superhero AU in which Dick Grayson is the son of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. This is a comedy about how Dick deals with forging his own identity post-college while dealing with well-meaning but overly-involved (and overly protective) parents. Characters such as Bruce and Dick have a pre-1980s (grimdark) feel to them; Bruce emotes reasonably well and Dick is a bit dorky and self-deprecating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birthday Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a non-superhero AU in which Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are Dick’s dads. And I mix and match various versions of other DC characters. This is most definitely a comedy, with Dick having a strong internal monologue, with a bit of detective work thrown in.

My name is Richard Bruce Clark Wayne, and today (March 20th) is my 25th birthday.

 

And so I figure, being the reflexive thinker that I am, that today is as good a day as any to take stock of my life, which is, by most accounts, pretty bitchin’.

 

And yet, there’s a but because there’s _always_ a but (don’t you read advice columns?). Despite the general diggity dankness of my life, something’s missing. Two somethings really: a sense of accomplishment and a significant other.

 

The latter is easier to explain. I’m like a male Bridget Jones (inner monologue-ing my diary) who’s looking for love. After all, my dads met when they were both 25, were committed by 26, and had me at age 28. I want that to happen to me, although I’m terrified at the thought of being a parent in a scant 3 years (and rightly so, I would argue. Parenting is hard work!). So that’s one resolution for being 25: find love.

 

Which brings me to another resolution – find career success. Specifically, find success in the one “career” I have selected for myself - private eye. I wanted to be a police detective, but Dad was totally against it. This is Dad Bruce, of course, as he is much more inclined than Daddy Clark to interfere in my life at any and every opportunity. In fact, I can still remember the day, the summer before my junior year of high school, in which Dad asked whether I would prefer to start in Wayne Enterprises’ R &D department right after college or if I would rather work a couple years at the Wayne Foundation first in order to “have a little fun before you jump straight into business.” I knew that was my moment, so cool as a cucumber (despite my internal panic), I casually said, “Well, I would really prefer to be a police detective.”

 

I think Dad damn near had a heart attack. His face went really pale and his eyes bugged out. He looked like a bloated corpse, which made Daddy laugh (which totally did NOT help the situation!).

 

_“Did you put him up to this, Clark?” Dad hissed, outrage seething out of every pore._

_“What? No! Of course not! Dick came to this conclusion all on his own.”_

_“He can’t be a cop, Clark!”_

_“I believe he actually wants to be a detective, which -”_

_“Don’t take his side!”_

_“I’m not taking any side here, I’m merely pointing out-”_

_“Richard!” Dad shouted, which was completely unnecessary as I was only about 20 feet away from his patio chair, lounging in the pool._

_“Dad, look, I just really want to help make Gotham a better place, and I think I could do that as a detective.”_

_“What’s wrong with making Gotham a better place through the Foundation? Through the business that provides thousands of well-paying jobs?”_

_Geez, someone knew how to lay it on thick!_

_“Nothing! I just would like to be a detective, too, you know?”_

_“No, I do not know! Why do you want to get shot, Richard?”_

_“I don’t want to get shot, Dad! Why would I want to get shot? Who wants to get shot?”_

_“Well, Richard, when I hear you say you want to be a police detective, I hear, ‘Dad, I want to get shot.’”_

_  
I gaped at him for a second. “Dad, that’s … the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” I mean, I know my dad dislikes guns, but sheesh!_

_I turned pleading eyes to Daddy, who gave me a wink and then heaved a heavy sigh. “Bruce, I think you might be overreacting just a bit.”_

_“How am I overreacting, Clark? Guns are a terrible scourge on our society.”_

_“Dad, you act like cops are the only people who get shot!” I interrupted, exasperated. “Poor people and minorities get shot way more than cops! If I wanted to get shot, I would just chuck my trust fund and go live in Crime Alley!”_

_Daddy fixed me with a “you-are-not-helping-your-case,-young-man” look, which promptly shut me up._

_“Bruce, Dick loves helping people and he loves solving puzzles. Law enforcement would play to both of those strengths.”_

_“So would the family business.”_

_“Dad, I never said I didn’t want to take over the company! You just asked what I wanted to do right after college!”_

_“Well, I certainly didn’t expect you to willfully put yourself in the line of fire!” Dad fixed Daddy and me with a look that we both knew meant he was about to trot out that story again._

_“I know the two of you have never experienced gun violence, for which I am truly thankful-”_

_“Daaaaaad,” I groaned, knowing where this was headed._

_“Bruce, is this really the time and place?” Daddy gently suggested, but Dad plowed on like he hadn’t heard our protests._

_“But I have. And it is something I never want the two of you to experience. I never want to experience it again. The pain, the fear, the sheer horror of almost losing everything you love. Richard, my heart can’t take that.”_

_“Dad, I’m not gonna get shot,” I put in weakly, knowing that Dad was about to go full soapbox and anything I said was moot._

_“I remember when I was 8 years old, leaving the movie theatre with your grandparents, Dick. And then, in a dark alley, a mugger came out of nowhere, brandishing a gun. A gun that almost shattered my entire world. He demanded money from your grandfather, and, when your grandfather wasn’t fast enough, he ripped his wallet out of his hands and shot your grandfather in the arm so he couldn’t prevent his escape. Your grandfather fell. Your grandmother fell. I thought my life had ended. That I was alone in the world. But I was lucky. Someone from the theatre had called 911 and we were whisked to the hospital. Your grandfather was merely nicked, and your grandmother had simply fainted. Dr Thompkins patched them up and life went on as before. But I realized something then, when I was but 8. Do you know what that was?”_

_“What?” I responded, even though I had heard this story a thousand times before and knew exactly what Dad was going to say._

_“I realized that family is the most important thing in the world and that I would do anything to protect my loved ones.”_

_“Including crapping on your son’s dreams and ruining his one true chance at happiness?” I cheekily asked._

_Dad frowned. “Don’t be melodramatic, Richard.” He tells me not to be dramatic! I swear._

_“You know I’m always here for you, Dick. You’re my number one priority. It’s just that sometimes being here for you means thwarting your desires.”_

_I knew I was beat. I glanced at Daddy with the frail hope that his resistance had not been crushed, but his expression only told me what I already knew. Dad had busted out the big guns (hahaha) and used THE STORY. The one story that trumped all other stories, because, really how could a pampered teenager ever compete with possibly-dead grandparents and solemn fatherly oaths to protect me at all costs? And he had even followed it up with his “I’m-always-here-for-you” spiel, which was even true! I know a lot of wealthy parents are portrayed as neglectful but my dads were most assuredly not. Dad Bruce would leave board meetings to attend my silly elementary school plays. Daddy Clark once let Aunt Lois interview the President instead of him so he could come to a gymnastics meet. They were awesome dads, so I would just have to work with Dad’s gun issues._

_I climbed out of the pool, wrapped myself in a towel, and plunked myself down in Dad Bruce’s lap. “Fine, Dad. But can I at least become a gun-free private eye for a few years?”_

 

And that led us here. After much wrangling, Dad agreed that I could be a part-time, gun-free private eye. Emphasis on the part-time (well, and the gun free. Who am I kidding?). On Mondays and Tuesdays I work at Wayne Enterprises, doing stuff. I have no idea what my position is technically called, if it’s called anything, but I’m pretty much an apprentice CEO. I do whatever Dad tells me to do. I’ve been doing this since I graduated college, and I’ve learned a ton - chief of which is pray to god Lucius Fox never retires!

 

On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I work at the Wayne Foundation, which is conveniently located in the same building as my apartment (well, as the Wayne Family penthouse in which I have resided since I graduated college. Dad lived here too when he was post-college and single; he and Daddy even spent a couple years here, but once they had me they high-tailed their asses back to stately Wayne Manor and suburbia as fast as they could). At the Foundation, I help plan events, interview people, decide who gets what grants, and that kind of thing. I also attend an increasing number of social functions as the family’s representative because everyone else always seems to be busy. Grandma and Grandpa are the busiest retired people I have ever met, although I suspect golf and quick getaways to go golfing are the culprits.

 

Finally, on Fridays I am a private eye. I just run the “business” out of my apartment, although I do have a suitably film-noir type desk and chairs in a small room off the foyer that serves as my office. Although I’ve been doing this about 2.5 years, business is not exactly booming. It’s not like I need the money – I would just like to practice my passion. And would it be so much to ask for a case that wasn’t directed my way courtesy of my grandmother? I appreciate the support but so many elderly society matrons have had missing lap dogs and jewelry these past couple years that I’m sensing a well-meaning conspiracy.

 

It would be nice to make it in something my parents haven’t directly had a hand in. For instance, most 25-year-olds would consider it an accomplishment to have their own apartment, but mine was given to me. It’s a family property that we’ve had for generations – I didn’t do anything to earn it. I think that’s also why I plan to conduct my own search for love. Lord knows my parents or grandparents could set me up with any number of nubile debutantes eager to snag a Wayne. But I want someone who likes me for me; I want what Daddy Bruce and Clark have.

 

But if I’m going to make progress in that regard, I need to snap out of my funk. No one likes a sad sack. Especially an almost-but-not-quite spoiled (or so I like to think) rich boy who has a great life. I mean, sometimes I’m tempted to punch me when I whine.

 

Time for some positive thinking! As I lay there in bed (today, after all, is my shortest commute and my private eye office doesn’t open until 10), starting at the ceiling, I start to smile. Ahh, yes. My greatest triumph thus far.

 

 

I graduated _summa cum laude_ from Cornell with a double major in business (Dad insisted) and history (it’s kinda like detective work, except everyone – not just a murder victim – is dead). But what I’m really proud about is even going to Cornell in the first place. Because that was another negotiation with Dad Bruce. He desperately wanted me to go to Princeton, where he went. I didn’t want to go to Princeton, partially because their Fall semester exams are done after winter break (who does that?) but mostly because I wanted to go somewhere Dad hadn’t. Or Daddy. There was no way I was going to the University of Kansas. Not that Dad would have permitted it. I was attending an Ivy League institution. End of discussion.

 

I liked Cornell. Ithaca was beautiful, and it was close, but not too close, to Gotham City. I could spread my wings a little. Daddy Clark thought it was great. Dad Bruce was not entirely convinced.

 

_“Dick, are you sure? Cornell’s not one of the elite Ivies.”_

_Daddy and I rolled our eyes. “Dad, are you serious? It’s Ivy League! It’s elite.”_

_“Bruce, Cornell is an excellent choice. Dick hasn’t lit up like this at any of the other universities we visited.”_

_“I know, but.” Dad couldn’t put his objection into words._

_“Come on, Dad. I would have thought my eight different Powerpoints extolling the virtues of Cornell would have been enough.”_

_Daddy nodded at Dad. “You have to admit, those were very convincing presentations.”_

_Dad glumly grunted his agreement. Finally, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Just be careful.”_

_“Of course, Dad!”_

_“Don’t walk too close to the gorge.”_

_Before I could protest with a “Daaaaad,” Daddy intervened._

_“Of for heaven’s sake, Bruce. He’s just going to college, not Mars.” Turning to me, Daddy said, “What your father means, Dick, is that we love you very much and are struggling to come to terms with the fact that our baby’s going to college.”_

_“I…” I didn’t know what to say._

_Dad looked momentarily betrayed, like Daddy had revealed a big secret he shouldn’t have, but then he sighed. “Yes, your father’s right.”_

_“Of course I am. Now group hug everyone.” We all hugged, and it was awesome (I love hugs)._

_“Now, let’s go get some ice cream before I ruin the moment by crying.”_

_“Agreed,” Dad Bruce said a little too quickly, trying to distract me from his shiny eyes._

 

My smile broadened. Yeah, that was a great memory. Cornell had been great because I had selected the school myself and felt an increased sense of ownership over my education. My dads had let me go farther away (Princeton, along with being Dad Bruce’s alma mater is only about 30 minutes from our house) so that I could feel more grown-up. The trust they placed in me had really meant a lot. Going to Cornell made me happier to return to Gotham City afterwards and start learning the family business in earnest. And although my dads (especially Bruce) are ridiculously overprotective helicopter parents, I know they love me. And hey, maybe you can’t be too careful when your son is heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune and child of a famous journalist. Crap happens, although surprisingly little of it on Bruce Wayne’s watch. He must be on to something there.

 

Hm. Maybe my life’s not so bad after all (‘cept I really need a girlfriend). Good pep talk, self! Time to feast on Crocky Crunch as my reward.  

 

 

* * *

 

I put on one of my best suits, complete with my sapphire blue dress shirt that really “brought out my eyes” and settled down in my private eye office with a cup of tea about 10 AM. (Dad Bruce would never let me have coffee as a child, but Alfred would generously slip me tea.) Per usual, I had no customers eager to partake of my services, so I fired up my computer and pulled up the menu for Paddy Wagon’s, the Irish bar and grill near the police station where I was meeting two of my closest friends (Wally Allen-West and Roy Harper) for a birthday lunch. Wally was a forensic scientist for the Gotham City Police Department; as fun as that sounds, Wally has assured me repeatedly that it’s not nearly as cool as it looks on the show _CSI_. Roy, two years our senior, is an agent of the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, working at the Gotham City office. I admire Roy for managing to convince his millionaire father to allow him to work such a dangerous job. I can’t imagine how my dads would have reacted had I dropped that on them. I think they both would have keeled over from heart attacks!

 

Anyway, lunch time is at a premium for Wally and Roy, so I need to know what I’m ordering before we get there. So I take a good 20 minutes to leisurely peruse the menu before I bust open the Gotham Gazette-Planet to read my favorite columnists, all of whom are family or very close to it. I read the hard-hitting investigative reporting of Lois Lane (who is basically my aunt since she took Daddy Clark under her wing when he first started at the paper) and the opinion column by Iris West, Wally’s mom (although Wally and I went to high school together, we were friends since birth because Daddy Clark and Iris were buddies). Iris is actually the anchor for the Gotham Evening News now, but she keeps her weekly Friday column as a reminder of how she got her start and because she loves writing. And, of course, I read Daddy’s work. Like Aunt Lois, Daddy often has several items in the daily paper. Today’s it some local news items and an interview with a local councilman. I give it a quick read because my dad wrote it, but the councilman (like so many politicians) is a bore.

 

I’m idly trolling the internet, trying to pass the time, when my intercom buzzes. _Could it be a client?!_

I head to the foyer and press the talk button. “Hello?”

 

“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” responds Carlos, the head security officer for the building. “There is a Father Todd here to see you. He’s interested in your detective services.”

 

I resist the urge to scream hysterically into the phone. My first client not procured by my well-meaning grandma! I can tell Carlos is excited for me, too; his voice has an undertone of joy although he’s better at controlling it than I am. With age comes wisdom, I suppose.

 

“That’s great! Send him up, Carlos! Thanks for the good news!”

 

“Of course! And happy birthday, Mr. Wayne.”

 

“Thank you! And Carlos, you know you can call me Dick, right?” _How many times should I remind him?_

I can definitely hear his smile in his voice when he responds quietly, whispering into the phone, “I know. But I want to keep up appearances when we have guests around.”

 

I laugh. “Whatever you say, Carlos!”

 

“All right then! One priest coming up!”

 

I spend the one minute it takes Father Todd to reach my floor pacing nervously in the foyer and shaking my hands. _My first client! MY FIRST CLIENT!!!!!!_

I was almost too nervous to answer the door when he rang the bell, but I figured it would be extra rude to keep a priest waiting while I got a grip on myself. So, with a deep breath, I opened the door to reveal my very first client (and birthday present, of a sort).

 

Father Todd.

 

Although I like to think I kept my cool, I was taken aback when first seeing Father Todd. He was so young! I couldn’t be sure of his exact age, as the plain black clothes and clerical collar were throwing me off, but he was definitely in his 20s. Hmmm. I thought priests were all old.

 

But I put my business face on and welcomed him into my home – slash-office.

 

“Father Todd,” I said, extending my hand to shake his. “Welcome. Please come in. I look forward to working with you.”

 

Father Todd gave me a handshake any businessman would be proud of and stepped inside. “The pleasure is mine. But please, call me Father Jason. Father last-name is so pre-Vatican II.”

 

“Oh … um…” I laughed awkwardly.

 

Father To – Jason smiled/smirked. “It’s a joke. But please, do just call me Father Jason.”

 

“Right. Okay.” Awkward pause. “How about we step into my office and discuss how I can help you?”

 

Once we were both seated in my “gumshoe-style” office, things proceeded more smoothly.

 

Father Jason was the assistant pastor at St. Michael’s Catholic Church, located on the edge of downtown Gotham, near Crime Alley. He said that a precious relic, the finger of St Billfrith, had been stolen from its reliquary in the altar cavity of the church sometime between March 6 and today.

 

My eyes widened. “Is this _the_ saint Billfrith? As in the purported maker of the original, but now sadly lost, jeweled-cover of the Lindisfarne Gospels?”

 

Father Jason seemed surprised and impressed. “It is indeed. But how did you know? Our patron is rather obscure.”

 

“I took a lot of medieval history in college.”

 

“I should say so. Anyway, the relic was certainly there on March 6 when Father Robert, that’s the pastor, and I said mass in honor of Billfrith’s feast day. But today, when I was dusting the altar, I noticed the altar cavity was ajar and the relic missing.”

 

“So you think it happened today?”

 

“Probably, but I can’t say for sure. The reliquary is one of those things that I don’t always look at closely. Just part of the backdrop of life.” Father Jason sighed deeply.

 

“That’s perfectly understandable, Father. It can be incredibly difficult to notice something is off when we see an object every day. Criminals count on that. It could happen to anyone.” I gave Father Jason a reassuring smile.

 

He gave me a small smile back and leaned back in his chair. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t imagine the police will take relic theft all that seriously and I would hate for a needy parishioner or prankster teenager to end up in any serious trouble over this.”

 

“Admirable, sir.”

 

“And since the altar cavity has several other relics, the altar is still consecrated. It’s not a huge deal, but the church would like it back.”

 

“Of course. Now you said all the other relics were untouched?” That was significant; it no doubt meant there was something special about St Billfrith.

 

“Yes. We have relics of two martyrs and a few other saints in there. But the finger of St Billfrith was the only thing missing. And not just from the altar cavity. From the entire church.”

 

There was definitely something going on here with St Billfrith! To leave all the other relics and expensive church ornaments untouched meant this was not a simple theft. _This case was getting good!_

“Interesting,” I intoned, nodding my head sagely. “I don’t think we’re looking at a robbery for monetary gain.”

 

“Right. That’s why I thought teenagers playing truth or dare or pulling a prank, and I would prefer to keep them out of the system, which is why I came to you.” Father Jason smiled. “I’ve heard good things.”

 

“You have?!” I squeaked.

 

“Yes. You located the missing dog of one of my parishioners’ employer with utmost speed.”

 

_So maybe grandma had a hand in this after all. Or a finger – hahaha. Too soon?_

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, and I would be honored to take the case.”

 

“Oh thank you.” Father Jason looked genuinely relieved. “I have this,” he passed me an old photo of Billfrith’s mummified finger, “although I’m not sure how much help it will be. It’s rather old, taken about 40 years ago when the parish was making an inventory for insurance purposes.”

 

I glanced at the photo and instantly knew it would be no help at all. It was of an index finger over one thousand years old. It just looked like a gnarly withered old finger. And, given that this was Gotham City, there could be hundreds – nay, thousands – of handless, withered fingers in circulation.

 

But I decided to go with polite (thank you, Daddy Clark) over direct (ahem, Dad Bruce). “Thank you. I’m sure this will be a big help. How about I scan this for my records so you can keep this?”

 

That suited Father Jason just fine, so I scanned the finger and returned the picture. Once he had his precious photo back, Father Jason asked, “What will your fee be? I would like to pay you myself so I don’t waste parish funds.”

 

I waved his question away. “Don’t worry about it, Father! It’s on the house! I mean, it’s not like I need the money. Maybe just put in a good word for me with your parishioners?”

 

Father Jason chuckled. “If my parishioners know you work for free, that’s all the word they’ll need.”

 

I paused for a second. Technically, this private eye thing was supposed to be a business, but come on. Dad Bruce was a billionaire. I was going to be a billionaire someday. I could certainly do some free detective work! I loved detective work that I theoretically would do it for free. Why not make theory a reality?

 

I beamed at my client. “Yes, go ahead and tell them that. Although I’m not much interested in following around philandering spouses.” I hoped to avoid that private detective cliché.

 

Father Jason winked at me. “Well, my parishioners might not have much use for you then.”

 

I was stunned for a second. _Did the priest just make a joke?_

Father Jason smirked. “I should be going then. I have some parishioners to visit at Gotham Memorial Hospital.”

 

“Of course, Father. I will get right on this. I’ll probably visit the church this afternoon.” I decided to go out on a limb. “No chance you have security cameras, do you?”

 

Father Jason laughed like I had told the funniest joke in the world. “Our only security system is the eyes of God and the workings of Catholic guilt.”

 

Man, this guy was a cut-up. I bet his homilies were hilarious.


	2. Birthday Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet more characters and set up further action. Some swearing; mostly from Roy.

My glorious meeting with Father Jason almost made me late for lunch. When I swung into Paddy Wagon’s at 12:02 PM, Wally and Roy were already seated.

 

“Hey! Welcome to the Old Man Club, bro!” Wally shouted. He had just turned 25 in February, hence “the club.”

 

“You two are mere children,” Roy pronounced, acting as though being 27 made him so much more mature or something.

 

“You would know, Roy,” I retorted as I slid into our booth. “You’re practically decrepit.”

 

But Roy wasn’t easy to phase. He just grinned smugly. “I can’t be too decrepit. I’ve got a hot date tonight.”

 

Wally and I just rolled our eyes. It was better not to ask with Roy. He talked a big game; I think half of his hot dates were imaginary. The main woman in his life was undoubtedly his two-year-old daughter, Lian. Lian’s mother, unfortunately, turned out to be a hit woman (what can I say? Roy was in the early days of his ATF career). Lian’s mother was currently in prison, although Roy took little Lian up a few times a year for a quick visit with her mom.

 

“Well, try not to have too much fun tonight,” I half admonished, half implored Roy. “I’m counting on you and Wally to be there tomorrow night to help me navigate the socialites.”

 

“Are you kidding?!” Roy spluttered. “I wouldn’t miss a Wayne gala for anything. _Those_ are prime pickings.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, causing Wally and I to roll our eyes for the second time in ten seconds.

 

“I guess tonight’s date isn’t too hot then,” Wally quipped.

 

Roy shrugged, turning sideways as our waitress approached. “A man likes to keep his options open.”

 

After ordering, my best buds started to pester me with questions about my birthday and tomorrow’s big event. The big event in question was my official birthday party, which would take place on Saturday night. Tonight I would be having a nice, quiet (I hope!) family event; tomorrow was the splashy party for the society pages. Apparently, the Waynes had been having 25th-birthday galas for 4 generations, which meant Dad (and Alfred; let’s be real) were never going to let me get away with not having one. Alfred and my grandmother had been prepping Wayne Manor for weeks now; everyone who was anyone was invited. Everyone on Dad’s rolodex and everyone on Daddy’s rolodex; it would be a veritable who’s-who of the Gotham business and media world. And political world. And law enforcement world. And fashion world. And medical community. And … pretty much every world. My parents were ridiculously well connected. I think I had invited 3 people (and dates, if they wanted): Wally, Roy, and Donna Troy (another high school friend who now worked as a fashion photographer).

“So is this party like your debutante ball?” Roy grinned. “Are you coming out as eligible for marriage?”

 

How I wish my burger had arrived by that point. It would have been a perfect scene to glare at Roy over the top bun as I took a satisfying bite. Instead, I had to settle for glaring at him as I took a sip of Zesti cola from a straw.

 

“Do you have to give a speech?” Wally asked, expertly steering the conversation to safer pastures.

 

I shook my head. “Nah. I just say ‘hi, thanks for coming’ and stuff. I believe my dads have to do the speechifying.”

 

“Oh god, are you serious?” Wally and Roy asked simultaneously.

 

“Yeah, why?” I was genuinely confused. My dads are both epic public speakers.

 

“Can the Manor hold the amount of Kleenex required for these speeches?”

 

“Roy!”

 

“Seriously, Dick. Your doting fathers are going to be giving public speeches on the occasion of your 25th birthday. Think about that. You really think there won’t be an outpouring of emotion?”

 

I frowned, seeing Roy’s point but not willing to concede it. “They’re both professionals. They’ll be fine.”

 

“Bullshit. No one’s professional when it comes to their own kids. Least of all your parents.”

 

When I opened my mouth to protest, Roy cut off my “hey.”

 

“Hell, even Ollie cried when I turned 25. ‘Oh my god, my boy’s getting so big and I’m getting so old,’” Roy said in an absolutely terrible imitation of his adoptive father Oliver “Ollie” Queen. “And Dinah” (that’s Roy’s adoptive mother, Ollie’s wife) “shit. Water – f-ing – works. I’m telling you, man. Be prepared.”

 

I looked at Wally. “You think so?”

 

He sagely nodded. “Oh yeah. My parents cried, too. It’s inevitable, especially at a big party in which they are showing the entire elite of Gotham just how much they care.”

 

“As if everyone didn’t already know,” I commented, a bit annoyed but also kinda smugly proud that my daddies love me so much.

 

“Of course.” Wally smiled. “I think the real question is: who will cry more?”

 

“Clark definitely,” Roy replied quickly. “Bruce is too uptight.”

 

“Are you kidding!” Wally squawked. “Bruce has a gooey marshmallow center when it comes to Dick. He-”

 

“Guys, I’m right here,” I interjected, which went ignored by both.

 

“No way! Clark’s the emotional one. The warm, fuzzy, ‘we-love-you-no-matter-what’ type. He’ll be crying rivers. I guarantee it.”

 

“You forget that Clark is in the news business, Roy. He knows how to control his emotions. I’ve seen it with my mom and dad. My mom puts on her professional façade and nothing can phase her. Clark can do it, too. Bruce is the one who’s gonna crack because he thinks he won’t crack and so he’ll be unprepared.” Wally leaned back, satisfied at his psychoanalysis.

 

“No way is Bruce goddamn Wayne gonna cry in public. Or at least cry more than Clark.”

 

“You wanna bet?” Damn, Wally was confident.

 

“10 bucks.” Roy offered. “That will be enough for me to take my lady Lian out for some nice ice cream.”

 

Wally smirked. “Dream on, bro. Those ten bucks are gonna be mine, and it’s Linda Park who will be enjoying some sweet, sweet ice cream.”

 

I snorted despite myself. “Does ice cream have the same effect on a grown woman as it would on a two-year-old?” Linda, after all, is Wally’s girlfriend, a young reporter his mother introduced him to.

 

Roy cracked up laughing but Wally just gave me a sly grin and a wink. “You bet.”

* * *

 

 

After promising to text Wally and Roy to let them know what extravagant gifts I had received (Wally hoped I would get a Porsche, to which Roy had responded “Bruce is a freakin’ billionaire, Dick better get something better than a damn Porsche”), I headed to the subway to train on down to St. Michael’s. I love taking the subway (what can I say? I have a fascination with trains), but Dad Bruce hates it. He says it’s dangerous, and I suppose I would be lying if I didn’t say that’s another reason I take the subway when I can. I mean, a guy has to do a little something to give his parents grey hairs, right? Of course, Daddy Clark doesn’t really care; actually he takes the subway, too, sometimes. When I was younger I thought it was odd that Daddy would deliberately do something to irritate Dad, but Daddy said “the reward was worth the irritation” and winked. I decided I never wanted to know any more than that.

 

Ten minutes later I was off the subway and scurrying down Crime Alley. I was so focused on getting to the church that I nearly bumped into an older woman coming towards me. Thank heavens I didn’t since it was one of my grandfather’s best friends.

 

“Dr. Thompkins!”

 

She glanced up at me and smiled. “Dick! Happy birthday! And call me Leslie!” How like Dr. T - Leslie to remember right away! “What brings you down my way?”

 

I gestured towards St Michael’s Church. “The church. I’m working a case for them. Top secret.”

 

“Oh, I see.” Leslie nodded in that way adults have when they’re humoring children. “Well, good luck to you. And I’ll see you tomorrow night!”

 

“Thanks, sounds good! See you soon.”

 

I belatedly realized I should have asked Leslie for the low-down on Father Jason Todd. Leslie, courtesy of her medical clinic, knew everything about everybody in Crime Alley. She probably could have told me if Father Jason was young or just looked young. Another time perhaps.

 

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed when I entered the church. Despite being located in Crime Alley, St Michael’s was a gorgeous, impressive edifice. It had magnificent stained glass windows, colorful walls, impressive statues, and high ceilings. It reminded me somewhat of the cathedrals I had studied back in college.

 

I was just completing my first turn-around-while-staring-at-the-ceiling (classic tourist move), when Father Jason stepped up next to me. “Good afternoon.”

 

I abruptly stopped. “Oh, hello. Good afternoon, Father. Lovely church you have here.”

 

He smiled as he gazed lovingly around. “Yes, it is. Mid-19th-century Gothic Revival. Surprisingly versatile style. This church was built in the 1850s by Irish and Italian immigrants and designed to remind them of the European grandeur they had left behind. By the 1920s, though, this area had gentrified but the Gothic fit right in with those new mansions. And then Park Avenue took a turn for the worse after the war, yet Gothic seemed a fitting style for the pit of urban decay that was Crime Alley.” Father Jason sighed, and I had a feeling that sigh wasn’t just for the church. “Amazing isn’t it, how one style can fit so easily in with a flourishing community and with a decaying community?”

 

I paused to think about this and select my words carefully. Father Jason might have called Crime Alley a “pit of urban decay” but he lived here. Surely he didn’t think the area was that bad. “I suppose. But neo-medieval styles fit that situation particularly well. After all, we have the romantic view of the middle ages that aligns with the flourishing community and the darker supposedly-superstitious middle ages that aligns with a run-down community.”

 

“Yes,” Father Jason nodded, seemingly pleased by my answer.

 

“But a simpler answer is: you can’t go wrong with Gothic!”

 

Father Jason laughed. “Now I know you took too much medieval history in college.”

 

I shrugged. “Plus, Crime Alley isn’t so bad.”

 

Now Father Jason grinned. “No, it’s not. Glad to hear you say that.”

 

“Were you testing me?”

 

“Somewhat. I wanted to see if you would take the case as seriously once you got here as you did in your office. From what I know about you and your family, I had every reason to believe you would, but it never hurts to be sure.”

 

“Did you talk to Dr. Leslie Thompkins?” I couldn’t think of anyone else in the area who could give Father Jason the 411 on my family.

 

“You could say that.” He grinned. “Actually, she’s the one who recommended I talk to you. I know I said a parishioner mentioned you, and she did, but Dr Thompkins sealed the deal. She vouched for you, and I’ve never met anyone I trusted more than her.”

 

My eyebrows rose. “Not even in seminary?”

 

“Even there. I’ve met many trustworthy people, but I won’t be surprised if when I get to Heaven and see the face of God, I find it’s the face of Leslie.”

 

As I absorbed this information, Father Jason continued. “Leslie saved my mother from a drug overdose. And then she saved me from a drug overdose after my mom died. And then she pulled some strings to get me into an out-of-state boarding school to keep me away from gangs. I highly doubt she thought I would find Jesus and end up a priest, but here I am. Only a year out of seminary and back where I belong. Crime Alley.”

 

“Wow.” Because, really, what else could I say?

 

Father Jason grinned. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have just rambled on like that. It tends to make people feel awkward.”

 

“More like I’m just reminded of how easy my life has been. Which, don’t get me wrong, is awesome. But now I feel kinda guilty.”

 

“Ahhh, the Catholic guilt is working on you as planned.”

 

“Uhhhh…”

 

Father Jason chuckled at my shocked face. “Again, I’m kidding. Let me show you the altar.”

 

After I had poked around the altar a little, Father Jason noted, “I hear today’s your birthday?”

 

“Yep. 25.”

 

“Happy birthday.”

 

“Thanks.” After a pause, I asked, “So, not to be rude, but… How old are you, Father Jason?”

 

He chuckled. “I’m 24. I’ll be 25 this summer.”

 

“I knew you were young!”

 

“Yes, well, even priests start out young.” He sighed. I knew that sigh.

 

“Do all the old ladies at church cluck over you because you’re so young?”

 

“God, yes. I have to tell you, it makes me grateful I have to be celibate or I think I would have been on 500 blind dates by now. Everyone has a daughter, niece, cousin three times removed.”

 

“Well, they are Catholic,” I smirked.

 

Father Jason initially looked a bit startled, although I think that was because I had made a joke, not over the joke itself.

 

“Anyway, I was going to say you can just call me Jason. The Father thing gets weird with non-parishioners.”

 

“Okay, sure. And you can just call me Dick … which I’m pretty sure you already were,” I groaned. Trying to recover my coolness, I added, “I feel you on the clucking old ladies, though.”

 

“I imagine you do. And you have my sympathy in that regard because those women are actually trying to get you to marry their relatives.”

 

As we chatted about the more irritating habits of matrons (society or otherwise), Jason gave me a tour of the rest of the church. While I kept one ear on our conversation, I also took note of all the expensive church ornaments that weren’t taken. Someone definitely wanted something specific with St Billfrith’s finger. But what?

 

“So that was awkward,” Jason was saying, and I realized I hadn’t been listening. “They don’t teach you in seminary how to break it your parishioners that the Catholic Church refuses to perform canine marriage ceremonies. And when you have a person who insists “But Fido is my child,” it doesn’t make it any easier.” Jason chuckled at his own story.

 

I laughed to be polite and cover my own ass. “Not to change the subject, but does the church have anything else related to St Billfrith? Even a book or something?”

 

Jason shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. I can check with Father Robert to be sure, but the relic is it. Most parishioners don’t even know who Billfrith is, much less that we have a relic of him here. He doesn’t appear in your run-of-the-mill books on saints.”

 

“I didn’t think so.” I sighed. “I’m going to need to do some research into why anyone might want the relic, but I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to get to it. I hate to say that but -”

 

“But you have family commitments,” Jason nodded. “That’s quite all right. We’ll find it all in good time.”

 

I still felt kind of bad that I wouldn’t be able to devote as much time as I should (and would like to) to the job. Father Jason was pretty cool, though, so I wanted to attempt to make it up to him.

 

“So… uh… Fa- Jason, Jason. If you aren’t doing anything tomorrow night, you could come to my birthday party at Wayne Manor. I mean you don’t have to or anything, no pressure. But there will be food and drinks and lots of rich people, which can be irritating but maybe you can convince some of them who are looking for tax breaks to donate to your church or something? You know, if you aren’t busy.” God, I sounded like a loser!

 

Jason smiled. “So long as you don’t expect me to say a prayer or anything, I’m there. Saturday nights are my nights off.”

 

“Oh no! We try to keep it secular. I mean, I’m pretty sure most of Gotham’s elite are Protestant – WASPS, you know – or not even Christian. Or even religious.”

 

Jason’s grinned widened. “Relax. I was just kidding.”

 

Duh. Of course he was. “Cool. But I should warn you, there will be a lot of alcohol. So if that isn’t you thing ….” I trailed off because Jason was nearly doubled over, laughing.

 

“Dick, don’t worry. I don’t have sex, so you better believe I drink.”

* * *

 

 

I arrived home – home being Wayne Manor – about 5:30 PM. Alfred met me at the door.

 

“Happy birthday, Master Dick!”

 

I hugged him, even though that sort of goes against the proper-British-butler image Alfred tries to cultivate. He’s always allowed me to get away with hugs and whatnot, and it was good to know that wasn’t changing. “Thanks, Alfred.”

 

“I’m preparing all your favorites for dinner, but your parents would like you join them in the study for a before-dinner drink.”

 

“Okay, but first I need to swing by the kitchen and check on your progress.”

 

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, sir?”

 

I grinned. “Yes, particularly your progress in the chocolate-chip-cookie-making department.”

 

Alfred’s mouth twitched into a slight grin. “I believe you shall be most pleased with my progress in that area, young sir.”

 

Ten minutes later, after stuffing myself with more cookies than was dignified, I made it up to the study, Dad Bruce’s favorite room in the whole house. The study has a huge desk, which Dad uses to do all sorts of Wayne Enterprises work on, exceptionally comfy leather sofas and chairs, and wall-to-wall bookcases. It is, by all accounts, an awesome room and a most excellent place to have drinks, especially when those drinks are single-malt scotch (Dad’s particular favorite).

 

When I opened the study door, I was greeted by 6 shouts of “happy birthday!” Two was expected (Dad and Daddy), 4 likely (Grandma Martha and Grandpa Thomas who, despite being almost perpetually on vacation, never missed a birthday), but 6? I looked around to see my dads, my Wayne grandparents, and my Kent grandparents - Grandpa Jonathan and Grandma Martha (yes, I have two grandmothers named Martha. Weird, right?).

 

“Grandma and Grandpa? What are you doing here?” I asked, running over to hug them both.

 

Laughing with joy, they returned my hugs, announcing, “We wouldn’t miss your big 25th birthday celebration, honey.”

 

“Thanks for coming! It’s so good to see you!” Excited as I was to see them, I had to greet everyone else, too. Just because I saw Dad Bruce’s parents more frequently doesn’t mean I was any less happy to see them, too.

 

“We should take in a game of golf, kiddo,” Grandpa Thomas, who is obsessed with golf said. He tipped me a wink. “Nothing says ‘happy birthday’ liking beating your old man on the links.” He laughed joyfully as Dad Bruce glared at him. Dad plays golf (because he’s a businessman and it’s pretty much required) but he hates it. Because he hates it, he never practices and therefore isn’t any good – which only makes him hate it more. Grandpa Thomas is amazing at golf, and (thanks to his tutelage) I’m not half bad. Grandpa takes a perverse pleasure in teaming up with me to annihilate Dad on the golf course; he calls it “revenge for your father’s teenage years.” I’ve (sadly) never gotten the full story on Dad’s teenage years, but rumor has it they involved a lot of fast cars and playboy antics. In other words, a lot of stuff I would never get away with.

 

After sharing a laugh with grandpa, I moved over to hug Daddy. “Happy birthday, Dick,” he told me squeezing me tight. I leaned back to look up at Daddy Clark (both of my fathers are several inches taller than I am, to my perpetual irritation), and grinned. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

“I love you, son. You are your father are the best things that ever happened to me.”

 

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

 

Then I moved on to Dad, who had set aside his scotch, which always helped to fortify him for emotional situations. “Happy birthday, Dickie.”

 

I hugged Dad. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

Dad leaned down to whisper in my ear; he was always shy about other people hearing any emotional admission he made to me. “I love you so much. You know you’re the most important thing in my life, right?”

 

I refused to tear up! “Yeah, Dad. I know. I love you, too.”

 

“Good.” Dad squeezed me one more time, then stepped back and swiftly took a sip of his scotch to give himself time to collect himself. “Smooth bastard,” I though cheekily. “I wish I was that suave.”

 

Before we could all overload on sentimentality, Alfred appeared to announce our guests had arrived and “perhaps we would like to move down to the drawing room.”

 

While everyone else fumbled around to grab their drinks and whatnot, I headed straight downstairs. If we had guests on my birthday, I knew who it had to be: my mom.

 

* * *

 

Selina Kyle – 25% Irish (hence the Kyle), 25% Sicilian, 50% Romani, and 100% hot – stood with her family in the drawing room. Yes Selina Kyle, the most famous supermodel of the 1980s, is my biological, toted-me-around-in-her-uterus mother. Yes I realize that referring to my own mother as “hot” is a bit creepy, but when you’ve spent your middle-school, high-school, and college years constantly hearing, “Selina Kyle’s your mom? She’s so hot. A total MILF!”, you learn to accept the facts as presented to you. My mother is insanely attractive. And it’s worked out well for me. I’ve inherited her darker complexion, her delicate bone structure, and her lithe build; coupled with Dad Bruce’s blue eyes and silky black hair, I’m doing pretty well in the looks department.

 

Even though Selina is my biological mother, she’s not legally my mother; legally my parents are Bruce Wayne (my biological father) and Clark Kent (my adoptive father). I’m not quite sure how my dads managed to finagle that in 1989/1990, but the legal documents were drawn up by Harvey Dent, Dad’s best friend and Gotham City’s District Attorney. Uncle Harvey is a shark of a lawyer, who also did the paperwork for my dads’ civil union; if anyone could figure this out, it was him. But my dads and Selina always had a good relationship anyway; Dad Bruce and Selina were good friends (maybe more? No one’s ever told me and I kinda don’t want to know) in the 1980s.

 

With Selina was her husband, Dr. Tommy Elliott, who I’ve always called Uncle Tommy. Tommy is Dad Bruce’s other best friend, who was practically Dad’s brother from the time they were 10 to 14, when Tommy went away to some fancy prep school, followed by Harvard, followed by medical school. When he was 10, Uncle Tommy’s parents were killed in a car accident, so my grandparents looked after him when his own relatives weren’t much help. Uncle Tommy has always said that Grandpa Thomas (who was a doctor) inspired him to become a surgeon. Anyway, Uncle Tommy hung out a lot at Wayne Manor with my dads; consequently he met my mother when she was pregnant with me. They started dating and got married when I was 6 months old. So my biological-but-not-legal mother has lived my entire life about 3 houses (well, mansions) away from me. Granted that’s about 10 miles away in our neck of the woods, but still.

 

I’ve always called Tommy “Uncle Tommy” because he’s always been like a cool uncle – never like a stepdad. For instance, shortly after I learned his parents were dead, I said I was sorry about that.

 

_“Don’t be sorry, Dick,” Uncle Tommy assured me. “My parents were awful, abusive bastards – don’t tell your father I said that word or he’ll have my head – and the world is better off without them in it. I’m certainly better off.”_

_When Uncle Tommy saw my wide eyes and shocked expression he grinned. “Who wants to watch an R-rated movie?”_

_I was immediately distracted. “Ooooh, me! Me!”_

_Later, mom walked in on us watching our movie. “Tommy, are you corrupting my son?”_

_Uncle Tommy grinned. “No, dear. One, he’s not legally your son. And two, I’m exposing Bruce’s son to the world. And that’s not corruption; that’s good, clean fun.”_

_Mom grinned. “Well, scooch over then. I want to watch, too.”_

Finally, with Mom and Uncle Tommy was my younger sister, Cassandra. Mom and Tommy adopted Cass from China when I was three. Although some people have tried to figure out why the Elliotts adopted, I was partly raised by Alfred Pennyworth. I know that there is a list of things that polite people do not stick their noses into; other people’s reproductive decisions is most definitely on that list.

 

Cass had just turned 22 in January and was in her senior year at Princeton (Dad Bruce was so pleased and Cass wasn’t even his kid. Uncle Tommy was a little disappointed she hadn’t picked Harvard. Dads, I swear.). I was actually a little surprised to see her.

 

“Cass!” I cried, giving her a hug. “I thought you were in Cancun on Spring Break.”

 

She shrugged. “I was. I came back early for your birthday.”

 

“And thank god, too!” Uncle Tommy boomed. “Happy birthday, Dick! And thank you for having a birthday during Spring Break! I don’t think I could have handled knowing Cass was in Cancun with those college boys another day.” He managed to say “college boys” like they were some kind of pestilence, which, in a sense, they were.

 

“I hear you there, Tommy,” Dad Bruce said, entering the room. “We have good kids, but the world out there!”

 

Cass and I shared an eye roll as Tommy and Bruce went off to talk about how they could better helicopter parent us. It was one of their favorite topics of conversation. Uncle Tommy was happy to expose me to things (especially to rile Dad Bruce), but Cass? Woe betide any man who crossed his baby Cass.

 

Mom came up and gave me a hug. “Happy birthday, honey.”

 

“Thanks, Mom.”

 

She stepped back to look at me, holding me at arms’ length. “I can’t believe I have a 25-year-old son. When did I get old?”

 

“Mooooom,” I said, not knowing how to reply.

 

Cass just shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Mom, stop.” Cass waved her away. “Go get a drink or something.”

 

Mom sighed. “Kids these days. No sympathy for the aged.” But she was grinning as she walked away.

 

Cass smiled and shook her head fondly. “So dramatic.” I just nodded my head and grinned.

 

“So,” Cass turned to look at me. “We’re going to have lunch at Bertinelli’s tomorrow.”

 

“We are?” I asked, my voice squeaking a bit more than I would have liked. I realize Bertinelli’s is the best Italian restaurant in the city but did we have to go there? I might meet her, and I would really rather not have to explain that ridiculous episode of my life to Cass.

 

Cass ignored my squeak and nodded. “Yes, you, me, and Steph. For your birthday.”

 

“Except I’m paying.” It wasn’t a question; I always paid.

 

Cass grinned cheekily. “Your dad’s the richest.”

 

With great money comes great responsibility. Moving on, I asked, “So how’s Steph?” Steph - Stephanie Brown – was Cass’s best friend. Steph’s mom was also a doctor and worked with Tommy at Gotham General Hospital. The two had been friends since infancy. Given how close the two were, Steph was practically my second younger sister.

 

“Good.” Cass was never one to answer in two words when one would do. “Wants to ask you about a guy.”

 

“Me? About a guy?”

 

Cass shrugged. “Rich guy.”

 

I could tell Cass wasn’t going to tell me anymore tonight. “When are we going?”

 

“Meeting Steph at noon.” Cass smiled slyly. “You can take me in your present.”

 

My eyes widened. “Do you know what I’m getting? Is it a car?”

 

Cass grinned wickedly but then made the motion of zipping her lips. “Aww, come on, Cass! Please? Pleeeeeeeease?”

 

But she just shook her head. “Patience, birthday boy.”

 

Sisters, sometimes. I swear.

* * *

 

 

But the wait paid off. Hours later I texted Roy and Wally: “Got a Bugatti Veyron.”

 

Wally: A what?

 

Roy: You son of a bitch.

 

Roy: It’s a two million dollar car, Wally.

 

Wally: Shit. Well, I want a ride then.


	3. Baby Dick interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not part of the plot of the main story, but it was in my head so I decided to share.
> 
> Super fluffy!

 

September 1994, somewhere in a Caribbean resort

 

Bruce glanced around the living room of their hotel suite. As far as he could tell, the coast was clear. Clark was in the second bedroom with Dick, helping their 4-year-old son get ready for the beach.

 

Bruce picked up the telephone and dialed a familiar number. After two crisp rings the phone was picked up, and Bruce’s ears were filled with the melodious voice of Lucius Fox.

 

“Hello, Lucius. It’s Bruce.”

 

“Yes, I know I’m on vacation, but I wanted to check in. How is everything?”

 

“Still the same, you say? Well, that’s good. Now how about that deal with -.”

 

Someone – who was most definitely not Lucius – cleared his throat very loudly. Bruce sheepishly turned his head to see an irritated Clark, arms crossed over his chest, glare boring into Bruce’s skull.

 

Bruce gulped. “Just a sec, Lucius.”

 

Clark sat down in the chair next to the telephone. “Bruce, we talked about this.”

 

“Clark, I’m the head of the company!”

 

“Who has a more-than-capable second-in-command. You don’t need to be there every day. Companies have chains of command in place so people can take vacations, you know.”

 

“But I’m at the top!”

 

“You promised Dick and me you wouldn’t do work on this vacation.” Clark gave Bruce a look that could melt steel.

 

“But -!”

 

“You are not indispensable to the company, Bruce. But you are indispensable to Dick and me.”

 

Bruce sighed. But before he could officially concede defeat or mount another weak defense, Dick, as if on cue (Bruce half-suspected it was on cue, a devious plan formed by his son and spouse), shouted.

 

“Daddy!” came the tiny but vociferous voice. “I need you!”

 

“And your son needs you Bruce.”

 

“You could help him,” Bruce hissed at Clark.

 

“I really don’t think I could,” Clark said, a studied but casual look on his face.

 

“Daddy!” Dick shouted again, a bit more insistently.

 

Bruce glared at Clark. Clark gazed back impassively at Bruce. Clark had no doubt he would win. Bruce was the kind of solicitous father who couldn’t let infant Dickie cry for more than about 30 seconds. He would break in no time. Clark was sure of it.

 

“Daddy!” Dick’s voice sounded slightly tinged with tears, as though he thought someone wasn’t coming.

 

“I’m coming, chum!” Bruce shouted back immediately. As he rose from the couch, he glared at Clark, who smirked back, completely unaffected.

 

As Bruce hurried to Dick’s bedroom, Clark picked up the abandoned telephone.

 

“Lucius? Hello. Yes, vacation is great. Do me a favor would you? Write down the country code and never answer your phone when that appears. Thanks! I owe you.”

 

Satisfied, Clark hung up the phone.

 

“I’m ready!” Dick announced, jumping into the room and throwing his arms out.

 

Clark smiled at the boy who was proudly wearing his new Lion King swim trunks and sandals. Bruce trailed behind Dick, a couple of t-shirts in his hands.

 

“Dickie, which shirt do you want?” Bruce asked patiently.

 

Dick frowned. “Why do I need a shirt? Aren’t we going to swim?”

 

“To protect you from sunburn when you aren’t in the water,” Bruce patiently explained.

 

Dick must have accepted that answer because he pointed at one of the t-shirts and shouted “Simba shirt!” Bruce dropped the green Timon-and-Pumbaa shirt onto the couch.

 

“Okay, let’s wear this for the walk down.”

 

Dick bounced over to Bruce and held his arms up while Bruce pulled the shirt over his head. Bruce affectionately ruffled the boy’s hair after the shirt was on, messing it up even more than the static cling of the t-shirt had.

 

“Let’s go!” Dick insisted, jumping around in his excitement.

 

“Do you have your sunglasses?” Clark asked.

 

Dick frowned. “No.”

 

“Go get them. They’re in your room,” Clark instructed. Dick dashed off to his room.

 

“You hung up on Lucius,” Bruce said accusingly as soon as Dick was out of the living room.

 

“I did. And I told him not to answer your calls.”

 

“Why you can’t -.”

 

“I got them!” Dick announced, re-entering the living room holding his red Lion King sunglasses triumphantly aloft.

 

Clark smiled at Dick. “Did you get your cord, so they don’t fall off and get lost?”

 

Dick shook his head. “Nuh-uh.”

 

“Go get it, kiddo. It’s in the little pocket on the front of your suitcase.”

 

“Okay!” Dick raced back to his room.

 

“And Bruce? I can and I did. This is vacation.”

 

“But -.”

 

“No buts. No working, only vacation.” The two held each other’s gazes for a moment. “You promised,” Clark added, the final blow.

 

Bruce sighed. “Fine. You’re right. I did. No more calls.”

 

“Good,” Clark beamed. “I want this to be a wonderful, relaxing vacation for all of us. That includes you.”

 

Bruce nodded. “Thank you for knowing what I need even when I won’t admit it.”

 

“Anytime.” Clark winked.

 

“Found it!” Dick announced. With his sunglasses in one hand and his cord in the other, Dick walked up to Bruce (who was closer) in slight confusion. “Daddy, can you fix this?”

 

Bruce and Clark both chuckled. “Sure thing, chum.” Bruce knelt beside Dick. “So first you put on the sunglasses.” He paused so Dick could do so.

 

“Good?”

 

“Yep!”

 

“Okay. And then you slide these little guys onto the ends,” Bruce did so, “and then slide this clasp up to make it tighter.” Bruce slid the closure on the back up nearer to Dick’s head. “Okay! Now watch this. Pretend I’m a wave,” Bruce instructed.

 

Dick giggled. “Okay!”

 

“So I’m a wave and I crash into you.” Bruce gently bumped into Dick who giggled even more. “And I snag your sunglasses and pull them off.”

 

“Nooo!” Dick really loved his Lion King sunglasses. He really loved Lion King everything.

 

“Yes,” Bruce confirmed, gently pulling on Dick’s sunglasses. “But you have that cord so, ta-da! Your glasses stay on and don’t get lost.”

 

“Yippee!” Dick clapped his hands while Bruce pushed his son’s sunglasses back into place.

 

Clark smiled lovingly at the two. “Ready to go to the beach?”

 

“YES!” Dick shouted, running for the door.

 

* * *

 

 

After a couple hours of sun and sand, it was time for lunch. Clark, who was dozing, rolled onto his side to look at Bruce who was reading a beach novel under a resort-provided umbrella. “Hungry?”

 

Bruce’s gazed remained fixed on the book a few moments longer before he turned to Clark and answered, “Famished.”

 

“Me too. Let’s grab Dick and get some lunch.”

 

“Where? We’re – well Dick – is covered in sand.”

 

“The outdoor café by the pool serves lunch.”

 

“Right.” Bruce placed a bookmark in his book and rose from his towel to start packing up. Clark did the same.

 

As if knowing he was about to be summoned, a sandy Dick raced up, bucket in hand.

 

“Where we going?” he asked.

 

“Lunch.”

 

“Chicken fingers?” Dick asked, his eyes shining. Chicken fingers were a favorite food of Dick’s that he was never able to consume under Alfred’s watchful eye.

 

Clark smiled. “You can have chicken fingers.”

 

“Yeah!” Dick did a little dance.

 

“But first you have to put on your shirt,” Bruce announced, procuring the Simba t-shirt from the beach bag.

 

“Okay, but first you gotta see my muscles!” He announced then held his arms aloft like a body builder.

 

Bruce chuckled lightly. “That’s very impressive.”

 

Dick turned to Clark. “Feel my muscle, Daddy.”

 

Clark reached down and gave the tiny bicep a gentle squeeze. “Wow. You might give Daddy and me a run for our money.”

 

Dick just giggled as he obediently put on his t-shirt. As he smoothed it down, he got a quizzical look on his face. “Daddy, why do girls wear shirts at the beach but not boys?”

 

Clark and Bruce shared a look. Neither really wanted to answer this question right now and with any luck Dick would forget he asked it in a few moments.

 

“You know, that’s a good question. I’m not sure,” Bruce fibbed, rubbing his chin as though he were deep in thought about that perplexing query.

 

Dick shrugged. “I’ll ask grandma when we get home. She’s a girl; she’ll know.”

 

Bruce looked horrified at the thought of Dick asking his mother such a question. Clark just laughed.

 

“Let’s get those chicken fingers!” Clark announced, shouldering the beach bag.

 

Bruce tossed the damp towels over his shoulder. “Hold hands so no one gets lost,” he insisted.

 

Dick was in the middle, holding a hand of each of his fathers. After a minute of walking back towards the hotel, Dick looked up. “Daddy? Wee doggie?” he asked, glancing from father to father.

 

Bruce and Clark looked at each other. “Okay, but just once,” Clark allowed.

 

“Okay!”

 

“On the count of three,” Bruce announced. “1. 2. 3.”

 

“Wee doggie,” Dick shouted happily as he jumped as high as he could while Bruce and Clark simultaneously pulled him upwards, allowing the child to momentarily soar through the air.

 

* * *

 

 

The café had been crowded, so Bruce, Clark, and Dick ended up sitting at the tiki bar to eat. Clark was in the middle. As Bruce sipped his adult beverage, Clark turned to him.

 

“So Dickie is looking a little worn out from the sun and sand.”

 

Bruce peered around Clark. Dick was listlessly nibbling on a chicken finger, his head propped up in one hand. He looked exhausted. “Think he’ll take a nap?” Bruce asked, almost eagerly. It was one thing for a toddler to be tired; it was another thing entirely for said toddler to willing take a nap.

 

Clark glanced back at Dick before returning to Bruce. He nodded confidently. “He will.”

 

“You think?” Bruce knew Dick didn’t always go down willingly for a nap.

 

“He will if I use my patented Daddy-Clark nap-time technique,” Clark replied with a smug, yet silly, grin.

 

“Patented?” Bruce asked, amused.

 

“Maybe patent pending,” Clark relented with a smile. “But I’ll get him to nap.”

 

Bruce grinned wolfishly. “Such a feat would deserve a great reward.”

 

“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be delighted to collect.” Clark leaned over to give Bruce a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bedroom. Ten minutes. Don’t be late.”

 

Bruce smirked around the straw of his drink. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Clark turned to Dick. “Ready to go, kiddo?”

 

“Beach?” Dick asked, as eagerly as an exhausted toddler could.

 

“Not yet. Remember what Alfred says about swimming after you eat.”

 

Dick pouted a little. “Not to,” he lamented.

 

“That’s right. So let’s go upstairs and relax a little.”

 

“Can I watch cartoons?” Dick asked, eyes wide.

 

“If we can find some on TV, sure,” Clark agreed easily. He knew Dick wouldn’t be awake to collect on the promise.

 

“Okay.” Dick dropped his chicken finger and stood up on his chair, arms up in the universal sign for “carry me.” Clark was happy to comply.

 

“Come here, you squirmy worm,” he said, picking up the giggling four year old.

 

Clark settled Dick on his hip, with the boy facing behind him and with his head perfectly positioned to lie on Clark’s shoulder.

 

“Give Daddy a kiss bye-bye,” Clark said, backing up so Dick was close enough to reach out and give Bruce a kiss on the cheek. Bruce returned the favor. “Daddy has to pay the bill.” Bruce made an exaggerated sad face and Dick laughed.

 

“Bye, Daddy!” Dick said, waving to Bruce as he and Clark walked away from the café.

 

“Bye,” Bruce waved back as he checked the time on his watch.

 

* * *

 

 

Six-and-a-half minutes later, Clark gently closed Dick’s bedroom door, having just tucked the little boy in. As predicted, Dick hadn’t lasted long. Clark knew just the right amount of swaying to add to his walk; two laps around the hallway later and Dick was fast asleep. Clark had needed to keep swaying in the elevator (which earned his a few odd looks from the non-parents and knowing smiles from the parents in the elevator) to ensure the magic worked, but by the time he had reached the room, Dick was down for the count.

 

Clark moved into the second, larger bedroom, which he and Bruce shared. Quickly stripping naked, Clark climbed underneath the covers to await Bruce’s return. Clark had partially closed the bedroom door, so he heard Bruce enter the suite and check on Dick before he came into the bedroom.

 

Bruce softly closed the bedroom behind him. “You really did work some magic there, Clark.”

 

Clark grinned lasciviously at Bruce. “You come over here, and I’ll work some more magic.” He patted the spot next to him on the bed.

 

Bruce didn’t need to be told twice. Stripping in record time, he joined Clark in bed seconds later. “How much time before Dick wakes up?” Bruce asked.

 

“Long enough if we get moving,” Clark answered, pouncing on Bruce and giving him a passionate kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee doggie is something I did with my parents and grandparents as a little kid. Soooo fun.
> 
> My younger brother used to love to have us feel his muscles when he was 2 or so, so I had Dick do that here.
> 
> And if you aren't old enough to remember much about 1994, trust me when I say Lion King was all the rage. We had so much Lion King stuff. So much!


End file.
